


Happiness is a Warm Gun

by KellerProcess



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Ableist Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Fic, Gen, Gun Violence, Mild Gore, So so much crack, Swearing, as does tw: Immortan Joe and the People eater are horrible people who say horrible things, cannibalism mention, every car has a story, fat shaming language, gun kink sorta, more tags may be added, probably tw; the bullet farmer is not a nice person and says mean things covers it all, this is the Doof Wagon's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 14:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4104124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KellerProcess/pseuds/KellerProcess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Major Kalashnikov, aka The Bullet Farmer, just wants a quiet life of stockpiling weapons of small destructions and shooting people who disrespect his authority in the knees. However, a life of tranquility alone with one’s arsenal is never possible when one is allies with a cannibalistic bean counter and a tyrant with delusions of godhood and an obsession with building a musical monstrosity called “the Doof Wagon.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You’d think that since the world has bloody well ended, a man could live out his golden years in peace, lovingly cleaning and tending to his weapons. Stroking their barrels, caressing their actions, firing them into people who seem incapable of listening to him.

You’d think so. But I am not that man.

My name is Major Kalashnikov, the Bullet Farmer, the master of the Mauser, the charioteer of the Peacemaker, judge, jury, and executioner of all I survey.   
And I live within missile-firing distance of two complete dingbats.  
One of whom has just rolled into my domain in not one but _two_ Coup De Villes mounted on tires that would have been an embarrassment at a monster truck rally a hundred years ago. Well, I suppose when one worships oneself as a god, overcompensating comes as naturally as braying—which, speak of the devil, Joe is doing right now.

“ _Kalashnikov!_ ”

“Oh, do stop antagonizing my farmers,” I tell him as I step out of my farmhouse. “I can hear you. We all can hear you. Everyone in Gas Town can probably hear you too.” I nod at his imperator, who returns the gesture with her usual slit-eyed stoicism. Back after the Water Wars, long before this Furiosa woman was even an itch her pappy needed to scratch, I used to respect Colonel Joe Moore. I fought beside him in the Oil Wars. I stood at his right hand during the chaos that came after. At his side, I helped take the Citadel that now forms one point of our triangle of influence. 

But that was before he started dressing like a refugee clown from Burning Man and behaving like Benito Mussolini at a rave. Really, if he must rape and pillage everything with a pulse, can’t he at least do so with some of his former dignity? Midlife crises are a luxury we simply cannot afford.

How Furiosa can withstand the urge to regularly kick him in what is no doubt his raw and overused scrotum is quite beyond my ken.

Grunting, Joe lumbers into my farmhouse, ignoring my irritation as usual. I think something in the Citadel’s water must have made him immune to sarcasm years ago—or perhaps he’s just gotten used to no one questioning him.

“By all means, do make yourself at home,” I grumble. He sits down at my worktable without so much as a backwards glance, thereby proving my point. “May I get you anything? Water? Jerky?” A few .22 LRs to the knees?

Joe waves at me imperiously, and I fight down the urge to draw my Glock. The absolute nerve! 

“The Doof Wagon is nearing completion,” he rasps through that ridiculous respirator. 

I don’t bother stifling the urge to groan. The People Eater and I rarely agree on anything—really, with a nom de guerre like that, how could I possibly?—but he and I both think Joe’s latest pet project is not only a colossal waste of resources, but a goddamned embarrassment.

And now it seems that he’s added four turrets, fourteen poles, and—

“Is that _firework_ rigging?”

I can’t see what his mouth is doing, but Joe’s eyes are smiling for him. “It will be the crowning glory of my war arsenal! Minor warlords everywhere will take one look at it and tremble at its greatness!”

Oh, the fat bastard is going to mess himself when he sees these specs. I don’t even want to guess at how much guzzoline this thing will need to drive a mile into the Wasteland, but I’m certain the answer is somewhere north of “too fucking much.”

But it seems I’ve ignored the worst of it. Joe taps his finger on the paper and flicks his gaze to me. “And the cannons?”

The sudden, stabbing migraine comes on so viciously that at first I don’t realize what he has said. But, indeed, there are three of the damned things mounted on this impossible monstrosity—and one looks to be roughly the size of the Jaivana, only with a wider muzzle.

“Joe…” I’m surprised, really, that the bridge of my nose hasn’t been pulled out of shape from so many years of me pinching it. “Please tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

“One of my imperators has been specially training an elite group of War Boys to serve as Powder Hounds.” I don’t even want to know, and yet he keeps talking. “They’re to be fired from the Doof Cannons at top speed and will fly over the enemy, straffing them with Uzi fire before landing on their vehicles to fight.”

“Uzis that I’m to provide, naturally.”

Joe’s eyes smile again as if I’ve not actually groaned the words but whispered them in quiet awe. I don’t quite know what to say except: “Somehow I don’t think you’ve really thought this through. The cannons—”

Again the dismissive wave. “You’ve got an entire field of them, don’t you? Behind the Shotgun Patch.”

“That’s hardly relevant, Joe. They will need extensive modifications—modifications we may not be able to make without blasting dozens of your Powder Hounds into chunks first.”  
Joe soberly folds his arms across his chest. “There is scarcely a more glorious death in the service of the Immortan.”

Sometimes I don’t know whether Joe actually believes his own press or if he’s just convinced himself he does. But I’ve no choice here. Joe always gets his way. That was as true during the Oil Wars as it is today.

“Well, I certainly don’t have a cannon this size,” I tell him, poking my finger at the Jaivana. “You’ll have to make do with a smaller barrel.”

Made by any other man, the sigh he huffs out would sound petulant. On Joe, it just sounds asthmatic. “Fine. Very well. Do the best you can within the week,” he instructs as he hefts himself up from the worktable. It may be my imagination, but as she turns to follow her leader through the door, I’m sure Furiosa’s granite expression flickers with sympathy.

Shaking my head, I tug the blasted papers closer to look the specs over again. And only then do I realize. With the two rounded cannons to the side and the Jaivana on top, the wagon looks almost like it’s crowned with a titanic—

“ _For fuck’s sake, Joe! Do you have to rub your cock on everything you touch?_ ”

Joe and Furiosa pause. And when he finishes his slow pivot, his brows are raised, his eyes squinched in confusion. The expression persists when I hold up the specs and stab my finger right in their asinine center.

“What the hell do you think it looks like?” I ask him. Of course, I don’t actually expect a sensible answer, and I am not disappointed.

“Kalashnikov, I say this as both a friend and a comrade-in-arms,” Joe says, his tone low and sympathetic. “I really think you need something more than grenade launchers and rifles to keep you warm at night.” 

And, well, honestly? I’m too outraged to do more than splutter as he lumbers out of my farmhouse with Furiosa trailing in his wake. 

Of all the juvenile, puerile, offensive things to say.

The only thing I deign to sleep with is a Heckler & Koch, fresh from target practice, when I can still feel its imprint in my palm. There, coiled deeply in my ammunition belts and wrapped about my beauty, I am truly warm indeed.

Ahh, but my time alone today with my dears has unfortunately been disrupted and will be until Joe hoists himself on his own petard or his Doof Wagon is crushed under the weight of his own ego and a ton of armaments it cannot possibly support.

I resist sighing as I tuck the plans into one of my magazines and set out for the Cannon Fields. The sooner I and my farmers can start on this insane project, the sooner we’ll finish.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The People Eater's arrival makes Kalashnikov's day even worse. (Warnings for a mention of cannibalism, gore, gun violence, and canon-typical violence.)

An important point to remember about the People Eater: unless something involves the enumeration of guzzoline, bullets, vehicles, or supplies, or screaming at me about any of the above, he can’t be arsed to do it. And given the lists Joe has no doubt shoved at him today, I’m shocked that he doesn’t show up until the sun is warming the western horizon. Then again, considering the way he’s licking his fingers as his limousine pulls through my gates, he probably found a few unfortunates along the way and decided to stop for an early dinner—and knowing him, it was probably a five-course meal.

At least he didn’t bring the full rig with him. God forbid he be a hypocrite about resources.

As his guzzoline guzzler rolls to a stop beside my farmhouse, I sigh and swing my feet down from the table on my deck and put my Remington Model Seven aside with a final slow caress to his barrel. Sampson’s maintenance will have to wait until I can somehow get this fat fuck to grasp that I’m not the one he should be screaming at. 

“Kalashnikov!” he roars as I tromp down the deck stairs.

Why does everyone think they need to scream my name when I’m less than ten feet from them? “I’m right here, Dickie, and I’m old, not deaf,” I inform him, getting a small thrill from the way all five thousand pounds of him bristle at the name. Yes, Richard Smith, and all of its embarrassing diminutives, don’t sound nearly as impressive as “the People Eater,” do they? Needless to say, I use them as often as I can.

“I told you to stop calling me that,” Dickie snaps. Oh, my, but he is in a pique.

“Anything you say, Dick,” I chirp as I lean against the side of his filigreed monstrosity and run a finger through the viscera on the grill. “You know,” I say as I wipe it on my jacket, “civilization may have fallen, but we can at least avoid eating roadkill when we deliberately run over it. That’s just disgusting, Dickster.”

Richard shoots me a glare over the crests of his pink cheeks. He’s so delightfully easy to infuriate. Maybe one day I’ll send him into cardiac arrest and Joe will put someone in charge of Gas Town who I don’t want to shoot through the stomach. That Furiosa, perhaps. Joe’s far too enamored of his own flatulence to realize the woman despises him almost as much as I do. Yes, if she appreciates guns as much as I imagine she does, we could even be friends of a sort.

“Goddamn it, Kalashnikov! Stop ignoring me!”

Oh, that’s right. Richard was screaming. “Oh, was I? Sorry, it’s just that I tend to ignore you when you’re on about things I have no control over, like whatever impossible toy Joe wants to add to his arsenal today. Really, why don’t you putter off and shriek at him about how many resources he’s going to waste on this ‘Doof Wagon’? He won’t listen to you either, but at least you wouldn’t be wasting his time.”

Richard sighs and mops the back of his neck with his handkerchief. “I’m not here about the specs—though fuck you very much for not at least trying to talk him out of it. I’m here about the damned axe.”

My eyebrows raise of their own volition. “What ax?” Nightmarish visions fill my head of a monstrous semi staffed with ax-wielding adolescents high on stolen blood and guzzoline and fairy tales and whatever the hell else Joe feeds them to make them more suicidal and insane than the average twenty-one-year-old male. Knowing Joe, he’ll probably want said semi to _be_ a giant ax as well. Somehow.

“This axe!” Richard slaps the young man standing next to him across the stomach and grunts—such an eloquent speaker. The driver bends down into the cab and is lost to my sight for a moment before he resurfaces holding—

Oh. Not an ax. An _axe_. A double-necked one at that too. Shiny and chromatic and therefore clearly the work of Joe’s mechanics—the more musically inclined, at least. I’ve never been keen on music, save for the rapport of artillery, but even I can appreciate the craftsmanship.

“Hm. Yes, that is definitely a guitar,” I say. “I don’t understand why you’re currently waving it about like a banner, though. You’ll overexert yourself, Richard. Think of your heart—the parts of it that haven’t ossified, anyway.”

Richard glares at the instrument as though it had personally offended him before flinging it from the car. It lands in the dust at my feet in a jangle of annoyed strings and dented metal.

My fingers find the bridge of my nose without any direction from me. “Are you actually going to explain any of this, or did you just drive all the way over to pull a particularly incomprehensible practical joke?”

“Joe wants this on that fucking wagon.”

I sigh. Speaking of practical jokers. “Joe wants a lot of things that don’t make sense.”

“He wants it to shoot fire.”

“I repeat: Joe wants a lot of things that don’t make sense.”

“And he wants my boys—” Richard stabs the air with a thick finger. “—my boys, to rig it up.”

“Yes, well, considering that you make and use flamethrowers and I typically don’t, I’m not exactly surprised he tapped you for the task.”

Richard humphs and folds his arms across his chest in a high pout now. “I’m not doing it.”

“All right. I’m sure Joe will immediately see the folly of his actions and change his mind about this whole mess when you show him the light. Now are we done here? Because, as you know, I’ve got three canons to—”

“I’ve got enough on my hands trying to figure out how to keep the damn engine from overheating,” Richard snaps. “His mechanics are good, but they don’t have any idea how to power something like this. The biggest engine they’ve ever worked with is the one on a war rig.”

“And I have enough on my hands to do without wrangling pyrotechnics, Dick!” I snap right back. “I’m not wasting manpower on Joe’s latest flight of folly just because it’ll ‘look chrome’ in battle.

I can’t believe the man actually says that without bursting into uncontrollable laughter. Then again, this is Joe, so I’m not sure why I’m surprised.

“Well, that’s too damn bad, Kalashnikov. Because I’ve already given him a completion date. Told him you’d have it done within the week.”

“Then you can just drive back there and un-tell him.”

“Can’t do that,” Richard says, gesturing for his driver to start the limo. “He told me to tell you that unless you get on board with this idea, you can forget about that military storage his raiders found last month.”

Seeing red isn’t just an expression. I know because I’m doing it right now. That son of a bitch. That fucking son of a bitch. Holding those lovelies hostage. What use are those anti-aircraft guns to him? What use that locker of AT4s?

Richard is giving me that piggy, toothy smile that means he knows he has me by the balls. I give the guitar a good kick before hauling it up by a neck. He already knows I’m never going to forget this, so I don’t give him the satisfaction of telling him. 

I’m just going to wait for a few minutes.

“Have a nice day,” Richard trills over the roar of the engine as his driver turns the limo. It’s a large vehicle even without the attendant rig, so it takes him a while, and I stare at them the entire time. That should be Richard’s first clue to worry, but he’s too stupid and too busy laughing, I suppose, to remember why turning his back on a highly armed man is a bad idea. 

I show him as soon as he’s left my gates.

“I’m sorry about this, beautiful,” I tell Sampson as I hoist my Model Seven from the table I’ve left him on. “I promised you a cleaning first, but don’t worry. I’ll give your action extra attention tonight to make up for it.” 

Shouldering my lovely, I stalk away from my farmhouse and give the signal to the watchtower to start closing the gates. The man nods and sets the mechanism in motion as I take aim.

My first shot blows clean through his driver’s head, drenching the fat bastard in brains and bone fragments—a nice dessert for him, if a tad bit burnt. Richard struggles to pivot as my next rounds puncture his back tires. Unluckily for him, he doesn’t have his rig. If he did, he may have been able to drive home slowly without the use of the backmost tires—albeit wasting precious guzzoline in the process. Now, of course, he won’t go anywhere until someone can patch up his tires.   
Someone who won’t be anyone from the Bullet Farm.

I sure hope another member of his entourage will be up for walking back to Gas Town for help.

Richard finally manages a half-turn just as the gates of my domain close. He shouts my name as I raise my hand to give him a princely wave, and then the rusted metal shuts out his cursing.

Whistling a merry tune, I grab the guitar up from the dust again and make sure it bumps up the steps as I reenter my farmhouse to give Sampson my full attention and his just reward. His barrel is still warm as I set about stripping him down.


End file.
